Shmitten Kitten

Things in His House That Make Me Glad: Absentee Roommates

noreply@blogger.com (Leah Blewett) — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 23:56:00 +0000

I've alluded to it here before, but it's time I came clean. I am Shmitten Kitten's resident Manhattanite, and this one should ring especially true to my fellow Apple-dwellers: there is simply nothing better than realizing that the guy you're shacking up with has absentee roommates. It's basically a gift from the dating gods.

Spending the night with your paramour in any city can be daunting. One never knows what booby-traps (and not the good kind) might await once you finally get back to his or her lair. Is she a cat hoarder? Does he inadvertently farm mold on the half-dozen old pizzas in his fridge? Does her bathroom have a resident slug creeping around the faucet? Has he displayed his Little League trophies prominently? Without seeing firsthand, one can never predict the horrors that lie within.

And then there's the most critical dwelling issue of all: does he / she have roommates? (And if so, how many bathrooms are there per capita??)

From the guy who lived with three other people -- and only one bathroom -- in Brooklyn to the musician whose 3,000 square-foot loft was on loan from one of the founding members of the Blue Man Group, I've seen it all. And so it is with confidence that I say that the best situation of all is the guy whose roommates are never around when we are. By stay number three, if I haven't met these other humans who occupy his space, I'm doing a little happy dance:

No one's standing awkwardly in the hallway when I stumble, hungover and frizzy-haired, out of the bathroom at noon after brushing my teeth. No one's steaming vegetables like an adult when we bust in in after happy hour and trip-grope our way into his bedroom. No one's leaving passive-aggressive notes about putting the pint glasses into the dishwasher when we dump them in the sink on our way out the next day.

And to that, friends, I raise a glass myself (while furtively looking around for any stray signs of cat hoarding or Little League trophies).

Things in His House That Make Me Sad: The Lack of a Window in His Bathroom

noreply@blogger.com (Samantha) — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 23:39:00 +0000

We've reached that point where it’s acceptable for me to engage in activities in his bathroom and maybe, maybe even leave a few items in there. I’m not gonna go all How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days on him and cram Costco-sized boxes of tampons everywhere, but I’m pretty sure a toothbrush and a razor are acceptable. This interesting turn of events leads to me occasionally getting ready at his place, which in turn, has led me to VERY MUCH notice his lack of a bathroom window.

I’ll be primping and pampering and hair-drying all up in there to look special for our date/bar outing/whatever when I am reminded of why I hate blow drying my hair – it gets so fucking hot in this grease fire of a bathroom. Normally, I could just open up a window and--bam, airflow yo!--but NO. Now not only is the mirror fogged up from my shower and his, but the hot air from my hair dryer is turning his tiny, little, sad bathroom into a full-on sauna.

It looks like a neighborhood haunted house with dry ice “special effects” mingled with some middle-aged lady’s dream spa day up in this bitch. How’s a girl suppose to look her flyest when she can barely even breathe? Instead of my tresses looking Charlie's Angel-esque replete with soft curls and glossy sheen, my locks looked like an agitated cat's tail. I'm getting upset all over again just thinking about it.

Let’s not even get started on the lighting going on in this place. First off – there is none, save for one glum like, five watt light bulb flickering hopelessly above. This whole room looks like its part of a horror movie set. I’m not completely convinced he didn’t steal this right off the set of Carrie or "American Horror Story."

While I can appreciate the cinematic greatness of well-crafted movie sets, I cannot appreciate the way I exit this bathroom panting like a dog. This bathroom is claustrophobic and I you can bet your bottom dollar that I will blame his ass when I inevitably die of heatstroke.

Well, That Sucked: Dating An Overly Fussy Orderer

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 16:54:00 +0000

Witnessing someone order food can be an enlightening experience. I have encountered many types of orderers while on a date. There's the nervous orderer, who points to what she wants on the menu, terrified of mispronouncing “prosciutto”. There's the confident orderer, who's done it a million times and knows all the answers before the server can ask any questions. There's even the up-for-anything orderer who asks no questions and is happy to give any old item a whirl. I can respect all of these ordering styles. All except for one.

When she asked the server whether or not the fish was farmed or wild, I saw the first red flag. When she inquired as to whether the meat came from grass-fed cows, I saw another. When she sent back the steak because it was “closer to red than pink,” I knew for sure: I was on a date with an overly fussy orderer.

Hands down, this is the least fun orderer to dine with. I'll try to telepathically transmit my apologies to the server while she nit-picks about the fricassee and makes several honey mustard-related inquiries. For a moment, both the server and I struggle to contain our irritation and wait for the ingredient inquisition to end. The tight smiles plastered on our faces started to fade around her fifth consecutive question.

Holy hell, how many questions can one person ask about nachos???

I get that she hates mayo so asking a burger joint to hold a condiment is no big deal. But when she asks the proprietor of the local cheap chinese joint if she can get her $5 General Tso’s Chicken “grilled instead of fried, because it's healthier,” I feel like throwing my spring rolls in the air out of frustration.

The most common argument I hear when confronting a picky orderer goes along the lines of, “I’m paying for someone to prepare my food, I should get it how I want!” That logic flies, but at a certain point, you just have to throw caution to the wind and leave the olives in the puttanesca, so to speak. Or just order a garden salad and pick the cucumbers out your damn self.

Bonerkiller: Obsessive Facebook Checkers

noreply@blogger.com (Leah Blewett) — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 15:11:00 +0000

Full Disclosure: I have a Facebook account. But I kind of hate it.

Look, I freely admit that there are moments -- early moments, long before a crush has developed into a date and is still gestating in the filthy gutter-puddle of fantasy that is my brain -- when I think to myself, "Man, if only he was on Facebook." His absence from that wretched cesspool of cyberstalking seriously diminishes my ability to ruminate on which of his features I hope our hypothetical children will inherit, and totally iCockblocks any chance I have of finding his most recent ex's unflattering selfies.

But that's where it ends, gang. Once we've actually interacted in the flesh, there's nothing worse than watching him obsessively check his Facebook account.

Walking into a guy's apartment after a giddy second date and finding his laptop open to Facebook is like winning the lottery and getting paid in Monopoly money; it's a total bummer.

What are we, 17? Is his life, as a functional-enough adult that I was willing to spend time with him in public, so exhaustively boring that he maintains a second one online, bobby-trapped with infantile emojis and increasingly asinine acronyms? He's all, "LOL, look at this cat vid my HS BFF posted!" or "Ermagerd I can't believe she checked in at Joshua Tree three nights in a row!"

And I'm all, "GMMFPBCIOH: Give Me My Fucking Panties Back, 'Cause I'm Outta Here."

I'm of the "Be Where You Are" school of thought: while the Internets occasionally amuse me, there's nothing worse than being out with someone who would rather check in online that check out my ass (c'mon, guy, I wore this skirt for a reason.) So finding out that he's so tied to his Facebook account that it's open on his laptop at all times is more than enough to make me sad.

When we walk through that door, he has a major choice to make: immediately slam the laptop shut, conversation threads and notification icons be damned, and throw down with me (I promise to make it worth his while!), or take a quick peek at his friend requests -- while I turn on my heel and march out the door to the nearest bar to request a drink...and find a real man.

Come See Me Tell A Story On Wednesday, June 19th at Shot Tower Coffee!

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Tue, 11 Jun 2013 17:49:00 +0000

The topic is "Fool's Gold." Don't wear any clothing with buttons on it because I'm gonna make you laugh so hard that those little fuckers are gonna pop right the fuck off.

FB info is here.

Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Are Great Wedding Dates

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Baik) — Tue, 11 Jun 2013 17:26:00 +0000

Once you get to a certain age, it feels like all of your friends are constantly getting married. Especially during "wedding season", where for a few months it will seem like you’re hitting up a wedding every weekend. Life is just one long weddingish blur full of save-the-dates, Crate & Barrel registries, and hoping my one pair of decent pantyhose doesn't get a run somewhere highly visible.

Don’t get me wrong. I love weddings. I'll use any excuse to get dressed up, dance and take advantage of an open bar. However, as a single girl in her late twenties, shit can be rough.

No matter how comfortable you are in your single status, the constant barrage of “why aren’t you married?” questions coupled with the blatant setups with the bride’s step-brother is a lot to take. It doesn't help matters when you're placed at the “singles” table that can include anyone from the family accountant to a random 15-year-old cousin with a mild case of Aspergers. It can drive any girl to pull a Walder Frey on the joint.

This is where your best guy friend, favorite hilarious co-worker or platonic tailgating buddy comes into play. Not only is your great wedding date drama-free, but he even has his own car (for out-of-town weddings).

He's basically if you Weird Science'd yourself a companion. Like, if you just opened up your computer and dumped in a gif of Paul Rudd dancing, an article about Ryan Gosling saving a pedestrian from danger, a video of Patrick Stewart giving an inspirational speech and dumped a dirty martini over the whole thing, he's what would pop out of your laptop.

Less Bea Arthur's bathrobe and more fitted tux, but basically yeah

Here are some more telltale signs that your date rocks at celebrating marital bliss:

He looks damn good in a suit/tux.

He dances. Period.

He transitions smoothly from fake boyfriend to wingman depending on the audience. (i.e. your grandmother vs the hot best man)

He's an expert iPhone photographer. #selfies

He keeps your glass full of whiskey or other beverage of choice.

He covers for you when you hide in the bathroom during the bouquet toss.

He helps you steal extra slices of wedding cake and doesn’t judge you when you eat four of them.

He gives you pep talks out the wahzoo if you have any flickering moments of self-doubt. "Does this dress look good?" "Shut up, you look great. Now let's go dance more. They're playing Kool & the Gang!"

He offers you a tissue from his suit pocket when you mist up during any particularly touching speeches.

Great wedding dates save you from what could have been a disastrous evening and help you focus on what you came for in the first place, to celebrate your friend’s marriage. Well, that and the free booze. Cheers to great wedding dates!

I Love Love Love That He's Pet-Free

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Wed, 05 Jun 2013 17:49:00 +0000

Of course I love (most) cats. And sometimes I love (small, nice, non-yappy) dogs. I have no love for snakes or any other reptile but I respect their right to exist. But, I gotta admit, it's a relief that this guy is pet-free. To not have to leave events constantly to go back to his house to walk / care for / feed his pet is the fucking best.

It's also nice that he doesn't have to get out of bed to go walk his dog first thing in the morning; we can lay around and wordlessly check the Internet on our phones for long stretches of time, just like how all great mornings should be spent.

He doesn't have pets so we can do whatever the fuck we want!

We don't have to make emergency runs to the store to get more pet food. And, we can skip town without having him flip out every ten minutes wondering if his "babies" are okay. There are no pet babies! The only thing back at his house is a bag of frozen peas and half a bottle of vodka. Big whoop.

Not to mention that since there aren't any domesticated critters bopping around, his house smells nice. There's no cat litter crunching under my feet or cat pee stinking up the joint. His Instagram feed isn't just a million pics of his pet making variations of the same pose. There's no dickhead pets jumping all over us vying for our attention when we bang. And, as a bonus, there's no animal hair on my clothes or his furniture. These are all great things!

Pet-free guys, this unused lint roller is for you.

Flippin' Our Shades at Mark Regan from the South Philly Taproom

noreply@blogger.com (Jackie Baik) — Tue, 04 Jun 2013 21:42:00 +0000

Mark Regan is a dreamboat. He's the sous chef at South Philly Taproom and he's one of the most entertaining people I've met. You may know him from his offensive yet charming twitter feed (@m_regan) where he consistently posts selfies, sarcastic food porn and unflattering pictures of his roommate's cat.

He's also not too shabby with a knife either and has worked all over the place, including the kitchens at Supper, Adsum and Lacroix before landing over at the South Philly Taproom. Mark made it to the final round for Eater's Philly's Hottest Chef contest, and his response to the Philly ramen craze was to hold his own "Round Guy Ramen" popups at SPTR (a play on the noodle bar formerly known as Round Eye). Here he is looking rather suave after kicking butt at COOK's Open Stove Competition:

I asked him a few questions about being a studmuffin:

SK: What's your idea of a perfect date? Can you give us a date revolving entirely around food and another not involving food whatsoever?
Mark: My idea of a good date (if I had perfect dates, I probably wouldn’t be single) would be to go somewhere where we could engage in fun activities, such as a carnival or a festival or the zoo or the aquarium or a hay ride. Food eaten would be on a stick or tube-shaped, preferably. I don’t want dates revolving entirely around food. I want to get to know the person, not show them I’m good at eating. They can probably already tell that from the stomach portion of my body.

SK: What do most guys do wrong when they're out with a girl?
Mark: I’m still trying to figure this out. Ashley, if you’re reading this, please call me. I don’t know what I did wrong; I thought we were having a nice time.

SK: What's the worst thing a girl can do on a date?
Mark: Talk about their boyfriends! You’re on a date with ME! It’s just all-around rude and it really brings the mood down.

SK: Tell us a secret!
Mark: I steal things for no reason at all.

SK: Where's the most romantic place in Philly?
Mark: Old City, during the spring, when those beautiful trees that smell like semen are in bloom.

SK: What do you like most about Philly girls?
Mark: Girls from Philly are the worst! They sound like Spinner from Death to Smoochy (YouTube it). Girls who moved to Philly, however, are great. They are this perfect little package of being laid-back, tough, and funny, all wrapped up with a nice lacey bow.

SK: What would you cook to seduce someone?
Mark: I’m not the best cook. I am, however, a great mixologist. We could imbibe some of the incredible cocktails I concoct on the spot, akin to musicians of free-form jazz. Anything with garden-fresh lavender really seals the deal.

SK: What would a girl cook for you to win you over?
Mark: Anything really, I’m not picky. (And I’m not talking about the food #winkyface) Also, a lobster roll.

SK: What would you put on a mix tape for a girl that you liked?
Mark: I would probably just mix up the order of 2005’s Garden State soundtrack. I don’t have a lot of free time now a days.

I never know if Mark is being serious but let's hope he is because I am already planning a trip to the aquarium where we will most certainly get corn dogs. He's single, ladies, and odds are he will make you a bangin' brunch one day. I mean, who doesn't love brunch?

Things in His House That Make Me Sad: His Lack of Glassware

noreply@blogger.com (Samantha) — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 18:48:00 +0000

When I asked him for a glass of water and he handed me a shitty red Solo cup, I took a preemptive pause and a deep breath before gingerly bringing the plastic cup to my lips. This, combined with the paper-plated Hamburger Helper resting precariously on my lap, was not doing him any favors in the Pleasure Town department. Have I mentioned that we weren't at a backyard BBQ yet? No, we were in the middle of his kitchen. Why we were eating off the type of plates sold in the same aisle as toilet paper, I had no idea.

Fuck these dishes in their plastic face!

I'm not a religious person, but I started praying like hell that he wasn't still using the same cups from college and just givin' 'em a spin through the dishwasher every now and then. (Confession: I washed solo cups in the dishwasher in college. It wasn't acceptable then and it sure as hell isn't now.)

How does a grown-ass man, with a grown-ass job not own real cups and plates? His reply, "These do the trick." They most certainly DO NOT, my friend. I think surely he owns at least a few real cups and plates. I flung open the first cabinet to my right and what did I find? Paper cups, napkins, and plastic silverware. It looks like he just raided some poor family's Saturday picnic spread. Someone--an ex-girlfriend, his mother--must have purchased him at least one IKEA dish set at some point in his life, right? RIGHT?

I start flinging open cabinets like I was expecting to find Ryan Gosling hiding within, but instead all I saw were assorted items not even meant for the kitchen. One cabinet was actually full of paperwork! Paperwork for Christ's sake! Does he not own a desk? A filing cabinet? A binder left over from his 10th grade history project? Maybe if he actually had room available in his kitchen cabinets, more kitchen-like items would exist there.

Instead, when all was said and done and the Hamburger Helper was getting cold and all the cabinets had been thrown open, I'd found a total of six shot glasses in his kitchen. That was the extent of his glassware: six shot glasses, all with stupid sayings written on them like, "It's Beer o'clock" and that "One Tequila, Two Tequila" crap and that just makes me sad.

Phrases We'd Like To Stab In The Face: "I'm Sorry You Feel That Way"

noreply@blogger.com (S.) — Fri, 31 May 2013 16:42:00 +0000

Nothing makes me more frustrated than when a guy says, "I'm sorry you feel that way.” He's not genuinely apologetic because how I feel is not in congruence with his reality. And more importantly, when he says it multiple times, all I hear is, “I will tell you anything to end this conversation.”

If he thinks I'm bringing up something awkward or painful to talk about because I enjoy these amazing exchanges, he’s crazier than I thought. Believe me, I’d much rather hang out on a street corner with a gun in my mouth than actually have a grownup conversation about my feelings.

I even explained this to him as I rolled into what was bothering me. But instead of listening and saying, “I’m sorry. I would never hurt you on purpose. Let’s make up by banging.” I just got the awkward, “I’m sorry you feel that way,” as if to take no responsibility and quickly end the discussion.

Today I’m upset because he’s got work, even though we had confirmed plans, and he’ll be late. I think late means like an hour. I learned late means he’s probably not coming at all. Once I realized this, I got ticked off. I called him and told him that he sucks and I'm not an afterthought. He responded, “Sorry you feel that way. I got carried away with time.”

I ended the conversation rather than say anything else that will make him sorry I feel...at all. I didn’t want him to feel sorry. I wanted him to stop and be sorry about whatever he did, because I’m worth a real apology. And really, I want him to be sincere ‘cause there’s only so much I can take of this "Sorry about your feelings" bullshit before I pack up and pray at the altar of some other penis.

Question: Have Matchmaker Shows Taught You Anything About Dating?

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Wed, 29 May 2013 15:02:00 +0000

I'll pretty much watch anything featuring dating coaches, relationship experts, and/or matchmakers. I've seen every episode of "Millionaire Matchmaker," all seasons of "Tough Love," and have recently discovered my newest pleasures, "Girl, Get Your Mind Right" on MTV and "Find Me My Man" on the Oxygen network. I can't get enough!

Teach me, TV. My mind is a sponge.

The appeal of these shows is two-fold: on one hand, I feel superior to the endless parade of clueless ding-dongs botching their dating life while at the same time, I enjoy the emotional payoff of watching strangers get their shit together and find love. It's engaging.

Maybe she should date a salad?

But as I was queuing up the lastest episode of "Pull Up A Chair 'Cause I'm Gonna Fix Your Fucked Up Love Life, Girlfriend" (God, I wish that was a real show), I started thinking about whether I've ever learned anything from these dating shows. Guess what? I think I have!

I've learned:

to ask the dude lots of questions and pay attention to the answers
to never talk about exes or politics on the first date
to not drink too much when I'm out with a guy (two drink maximum!)
to give guys a chance and not rush to judgement

This sounds basic, but it's not. No one taught me how to date. I just sort of stumbled around and tried my best for a few years which had mixed (read: terrible) results. I read The Rules in college and the only thing I took away from it is that I should never initiate contact with men because it would make me look desperate. Thanks, The Rules, for scaring the shit out of me and giving me a fucked up perception of how to interact with men. It took me years to unlearn that mindset.

These matchmaking shows--although they can be cartoonish and occasionally a little too invested in traditional gender roles for my personal taste--have at least given me a place to start. It's nice to have useful, sensible advice, that's all I'm saying.

What about you? Any lessons you've learned from watching dating shows? Have they made you a better dater? Tell me in the comments.

Flippin' Our Shades At Sharp-Dressed Short Dude Mike Oxman

noreply@blogger.com (Leah Blewett) — Tue, 28 May 2013 17:47:00 +0000

Anna is pretty sure I conjured this man out of thin air for her pleasure, but the truth is, I've been a Mike Oxman fan for more than 10 years. Dude's game is tight. For one thing, he is sartorially fearless (read: will rock a bowtie like nobody's business). As a custom clothing and image consultant, he's been profiled on NBC10 and has shared his fashion insights on the Examiner as well. He's also a gifted musician, and the Philly rock scene is significantly less funky when he's not on stage.

He's an old-fashioned gentleman but not above a good fart joke. Add to that a sharp sense of humor and an appreciation for women with curves, and well, let's just say the guy is fly. He's also recently engaged (sorry, Kitten-in-Chief!) so send him your congrats along with your poorly dressed boyfriend, because as a professional wardrobe consultant, he will transform your slovenly beast into the belle of the ball.

That, friends, is a suit

SK: What's your idea of a perfect date?
Mike: If we're talking first date, I'd say hanging out at a decent bar or getting dessert. I've never had a girl complain when I said I was taking her out for gelato. Dinner is too high-pressure for both parties and also kind of trite. Ideally, I get to know the girl, like her enough to want to go on a second date with her, get a compliment on my outfit, and maybe finagle a kiss on the cheek from her. (This, by the way, is exactly how my first date with my fiancee went.)

SK: What do most guys do wrong when they're out with a girl?
Mike: As an image consultant, I'm hyper-aware of this, but many guys have no sense of sartorial decorum. She's made the effort to wear something cute and maybe put on a little makeup, so why can't you wear a shirt that fits and pull up your God-damned pants?
***ATTN LADIES: If your boyfriend dresses like hell, needs custom clothes, and lives in the Philadelphia-area, contact me at mike@henrydavidsen.com***

SK: What's the worst thing a girl can do on a date?
Mike: Ever been rude to a server? That's puts you on the "no call" list immediately. I put a lot of effort into how I dress, and while I don't expect that you'll be totally decked out, I'd like to see that you can dress yourself with some skill. Finally, don't be a Juggalette.

SK: Tell us a secret!
Mike: I'm pregnant.

SK: What advice would you give a younger version of yourself about dating?
Mike: Don't confuse being a gentleman with never, ever being flirtatious. Sure, women appreciate it when guys don't act like horny jackasses, but she's going to get really confused and the mood will get KILLED if the chemistry is good and you're too shy to make a move. And avoid girls who don't want to hang out with your friends every once in a while.

SK: What would you put on a mix tape for a girl you liked?
Mike: Some stuff I think she'd like with some stuff she might not be familiar with. A little Beatles, a little Nina Simone, a lot of the Roots, a little Raphael Saddiq, and maybe some Queens of the Stone Age if she's badass. If she's into it, then we can talk about Radiohead from there.

If you don't already want to give him a hug, you simply haven't been paying attention. Follow him on Twitter @TheOximusPrime and check out his [well-written and frequently hilarious] blog DressLikeAManGoddammit.blogspot.com.

I Love Love Love Doodlers

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Tue, 21 May 2013 19:37:00 +0000

From Mieko, who thinks it's hot when a guy puts pen to paper and draws something cute:

I believe there's a song that goes: "When a man loves a woman/ He shares his amazing doodling skills/ Doodles whatever she wants if she thinks that's the way it ought to be." Or something like that, maybe I misheard it.

I have a long history digging on men once I see their artistic abilities that it’s not even a flippin’ opinion, okay? It's basically fact at this point. Don’t worry if you’re not an artist by any stretch, even in the worst-case scenario, all doodling is still somehow cute (e.g., the plethora of penis drawings in Superbad, anyone?)

Simon, the consummate doodler

And if you're an artist, don’t worry if your overall situation is quite unattractive, your drawings will save you. While looking at a $450 all-included room for rent in Bed-Stuy (Brooklyn), I encountered the most tragic looking basement apartment I've ever seen. First, it was not converted in any way; it was literally a boiler and pipes and storage boxes with some rooms down a hallway. Secondly, there were no windows. Lastly, thrown atop the toilet tank in a filthy bathroom lay a dilapidated copy of "The Road," almost like it was planted there as a prop to emphasize the bleakness of this apartment’s inner life.

However I considered taking this apartment because one of the rooms was occupied by a painter. Amidst the rubble of liquor bottles and food containers on his floor were dozens of canvases, all brightly, lushly painted with portraits of adorable white fluffy bunnies in button-downs. I was momentarily in love.

If you are a guy and you doodle now and then, all I’m saying is that it really could not hurt you to translate that onto a little note or card for your ladyfriends. You will win major brownie points. Just don't start with a penis in a cowboy hat or anything though.

I can see how doodlers can make your heart swoon but man, never dump a doodler! They will channel their heartbreak in doodle-form, then post it on your Facebook page (and tag you in it!) for all the world to see. Nothing like seeing a notification alert that you've been tagged in a picture of a sobbing, stabbed kitty cat to make you re-think diddling a doodler.

Beware of the doodler, my friends. Beware.

Things That Make Me A Bad Boyfriend: I Take Bar Trivia Too Seriously

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Mon, 20 May 2013 19:04:00 +0000

Bar trivia is an awesome idea. What better way to spend an evening than drinking beer and answering ridiculous questions about obscure topics no one should really know about? Personally, nothing makes me feel more manly than proving I know that the fifth stage of the modern pentathlon is pistol shooting.

There is one key problem with bar trivia, however. Just like the guy on every slow pitch softball team that spends $800 on a bat and keeps track of slugging percentage, there is always one person who takes bar trivia too seriously.

That person is me.

It’s not like I mean to get so overly involved. I’d love to sit back and act like I don’t care that our team thinks Lionel Richie wrote “Maneater” when I know that Hall and Oates are responsible for that musical gem.

I know my Lionel oeuvre and "Maneater" is NOT from his lovely permed brain!

But inevitably I find myself dissecting every question and taking it hard when my CLEARLY superior knowledge of mid-'80s basketball trivia is called into question. Perhaps the competitive family "Jeopardy!" nights created some bad habits I never quite overcame?

My issues aren’t limited to what happens on my team, either. I’ve been known to take a casual trip to the “bathroom” just to make sure no one is cheating on their smartphones. Not to mention the rage that builds up in my system when someone gets a tiebreaker question correct that no one would know without cheating. Chances are if someone is able to say exactly how many centimeters tall Mount Washington is, they are probably consulting their pocket version of Wikipedia.

I’ll have to work on my bar trivia approach and crank the intensity down a notch or three. It might take time. Until then, my tendency to ruin bar trivia may make me a bad boyfriend.

Real Talk: Bad Boys Over 30 Must Die

noreply@blogger.com (Julia) — Mon, 20 May 2013 15:44:00 +0000

You meet him, pounding whiskey gingers at the bar with “his boys.” You know the type; the kind that shows up to dive bars at 1:15am. He has a motorcycle. He thinks Facebook chat is a legitimate way to hit you up. He doesn’t offer to buy you a drink but he leans up next to you, his shirt barely buttoned. His tan looks sorta fake and his teeth are a bit too white, but he’s smooth. He’s handsome. And you’re down to kick it even though there's a 99.9% chance he's a douchebag.

He tells you he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. He’s been hurt before, a long time ago. He doesn’t take girls out on dates...anymore. And for a moment, you think, “I accept the challenge to transform him from mediocre bad boy to above-average boyfriend! Girls everywhere will talk about me for years to come. I'll be known as the Bad Boy Slayer and they'll made a limited-edition, high ABV-content beer to commemorate the achievement.”

And then two days later you shake out of it and realize that your life is NOT a Reese Witherspoon rom-com. This guy isn’t intriguing; he’s just an asshole.

There should be a rule that once you hit 27, games are off the table. Let’s accept the fact that we have lives. Look, I work 40 hours a week, PLUS I freelance AND I blog. Add into the equation that I enjoy being with my friends, working out during the week, cooking myself food, doing laundry, and I really love taking baths. I don’t have time to sit around and wait for him to ask me to “grab drinks” aka keep me up til 2am on a work night for, let’s be honest, nothing to write home about.

This isn’t pathetic Julia from sophomore year in high school, eating Nutter Butters on a Friday night and watching "Futurama" hoping some senior calls my parent's landline. This is big, city girl Julia. The Julia that can stumble through Old City cobblestone after three Kettle One on the rocks in 4 inch heels like it ain’t no thing. So don’t think I’ve got the time to wait around for him to drunk text me “Sup?” last minute as hell on a Thursday night.

So let’s lose the schtick and be blunt, gentleman. Buy me a glass of Riesling and let’s get this show on the goddamn road.

Bonerkiller: DJs

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Fri, 17 May 2013 18:48:00 +0000

From Jill, who does the smirk 'n' jerk to grown men living the DJ lifestyle:

I have known many wonderful and lovely deejays but dating a DJ is the absolute worst.

It’s all, “Let’s go to this club on a MONDAY night, even though you work 11 hours a day and you stayed up late to watch/overanalyze "Mad Men” and did I mention it’s MONDAY.

"Also, let’s stay until closing so I can befriend this DJ. Now we have to come support him every Monday night forever because we’re friends! By the way, we have to go to a different club every night of the week because I got a guest DJ spot here and here and here and here. Finally, hooray! Success! Consistent DJ-ing gigs that generate income, but I am torn up about it because I have to play top 40 for the masses. Oh, the humanity!”

DJ Cat Skratch Fever in the house

Next thing you know, your Facebook feed is just one long list of event invitations so overwhelming you didn’t even notice your best friend got engaged and your brother had a baby. His happy news was swallowed by tongue-in-cheek ‘80s album covers repurposed as party fliers, links to SoundCloud mashups and so, so, so, much dubstep.

Enjoying a quiet dinner at home while listening to your iTunes? I hope you don’t like any of those songs because he changes the song every other second to play you “something new that you will love” that you will hate. Did you ask him to find that song that you liked? Well, he knows that song but NEVER put it on your computer. Not to worry, though, he did put 1500 other songs on there. All dubstep.

I Love Love Love When He's Not Creepy About Being Into Pop Culture Bullshit

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Mon, 13 May 2013 21:07:00 +0000

From Dana, who'd prefer if he'd put the issue of Us Weekly down:

It’s no secret I’m a pop culture junkie. So when a guy can make a sly pop culture reference, I start rubbernecking. Do you casually ask people named Ben, Jack or Sawyer how they got off the island? Do you see an older woman out with her son and call her as Mrs. Bates? Do you dig discussions about Rubber Man, Bloody Face, and Jessica Lange? If so, I volunteer as tribute!

But please don’t call yourself Sean Lowe when the bar is full of ladies. Sorry, but I don't want my guy to know any contestants of "The Bachelor" by name. I just don't. I expend enough brain cells on this crappy rose-giving franchise, he doesn't need to do it too.

It's not hot when he knows who these people are!

And definitely don’t refer to yourself as Harry Styles because that makes my smile only go in One Direction: south to Frowntown. It confuses me when he knows who got kicked off "Dancing with the Stars" this week or constantly quotes "Teen Mom" (Farrah’s sex tape? Damn girl.) Nothing makes me awkwardly teeter away in my six-inch wedges faster than a guy who just knows too much about trashy tabloid pop culture shit. I know a ton about trashy tabloid pop culture shit; I have it covered for the both of us, I swear!

But if you saw Clinton on Colbert last week or downloaded the latest TED talk on your iPhone, hit me up. I love coconut rum shots with a diet chaser, men taller than six feet tall and Grisham’s early novels. Until then please excuse me, I think I just heard someone in the corner mention Leo as Gatsby.

Not to be a dissenter, but I like it when my man can go toe-to-toe with me about the shit we see on TMZ. But I can see if he started spouting off with a ton of opinions about "Kourtney and Kim Take Miami," I'd be like, "Step away from the E! network, guy. That's my area of expertise. No need to chime in about Lord Disick's eyepatch."

Quick Rant: Oh Jeez, Where'd He Go?

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Mon, 13 May 2013 20:22:00 +0000

From Jackie, who wants to kick his disappearing act in the scrotum:

Like so many single, non-desperate women these days, I have ventured into the often scary world that is online dating. While there are many advantages to finding your soul mate without any branch of the government doing any extensive background checks, often times we do, in fact, stumble across those on the FBI's Most Wanted lists.

Now, we all know those annoyingly cute, over the top lovey-dovey couples who have miraculously found each other thanks to the privilege of Neil Clark Warren of eHarmony continuously draining our bank accounts. To yours truly, this has proven costly on many levels. Since I'm both cynical and cheap, er frugal, I have resorted to experimenting on a few of the ever-present free dating sites. I can only say that I definitely have gotten my money's worth.

I'm only speaking for the ladies here, but I've noticed a disturbing trend: Men disappear! As in completely vanish. For weeks, days or even minutes, the two of you are having stimulating correspondence about the always fascinating jet stream and barometric pressure when...nothing.

The emails cease with no explanations or teary goodbyes full of made-up bullshit. Am I not worthy of at least some fictitious story involving aliens or his joining the Witness Protection Program? I don't know about the rest of you, but I prefer to know why I'm being rejected. It's not like I have no experience in that area!

I do realize that many people on these sites are having simultaneous conversations with two, three or 48 other members. Heck, even I have, on rare occasions, had more than one message in my inbox. However, if you guys are having second or eighth thoughts about us, then tell us! Most of us are not crazed psycho bitches looking to forever stalk you.

But nothing is more frustrating than being ignored or stood up. And being stood up electronically is it's own annoying version of hell.

We can only conclude that he was intimidated by the strong, smart, sexy women we are and it rendered him incapable of corresponding further. In actuality, we know that we've been replaced by the perfect woman with the irresistible combination of having both a 38EEE chest and a near-encyclopedic knowledge of astrophysics.

Alas, the eternal optimist, buried way, way, way deep inside me is hopeful that somewhere out there is that one guy who will continue to respond to my emails and will stick around for other exciting topics beyond the rise of the stock market or fall of the unemployment numbers. Or is it the other way around?

Regardless, I have one question: "Where the hell is he?"

Bonerkiller: His Old, Beat Up, Plastic-y Jesus Sandals

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Fri, 10 May 2013 18:14:00 +0000

From Sabrina in DC, who reallllly doesn't like his shitty sandals:

I was walking to meet him on our second date and giving myself a pat on the back because he’s cuter than I remembered; short hair, bedroom eyes, strong chin sitting over broad shoulders, with toned arms poking out of the Polo that’s tucked into adorably and equally preppy khakis. My first date assessment wasn’t blinded by the shots of tequila I had “for my nerrrrves darling” or the dim lighting of the restaurant. This guy was full-on attractive.

We made small talk heading down to the Cherry Blossoms, when I got jostled by the crowd. I apologized and glanced down to make sure I hadn’t stomped on his foot and WAIT. Hold. The. Phone. Pause. The. Music. Slam. The. Brakes.

What are those god awful, super old, raggedy plastic Jesus sandals doing on his feet?

Did I miss something? Was he mugged on his way here and the robber stole his Topsiders and left him with these molded shards of terribleness? Is he just amazingly altruistic, exchanging his shoes with one of the homeless guys by the Washington Monument? I was trying not to look down at them, but the sheer number of people and pets was working against me and ohgodIjustlookedthey’restillthere.

Just like that, my leading man wasn’t Ryan Gosling (preferably from Ides of March, this is DC after all), he’s Danny Devito in all his disheveled glory.

Look. I understand frugal. I understand comfort. I understand letting your toes enjoy the first truly nice weekend of Spring. And ok, he’s got a lot of other things going for him (although while I know those attrocities are there I can’t think of a single one) so it’s not a dealbreaker. I just hope he understands that these suckers are going to end up chopped into dozens of sad plastic pieces, slowly sinking to the bottom of the Potomac.

I Love Love Love Enthusiastic Sports Fans

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Fri, 10 May 2013 17:42:00 +0000

From Jill, who appreciates a sports enthusiast because she needs to make new memories, people:

I don’t care about sports but I love when the guys that I date do. Sports = guaranteed free time away from my boo. Hockey and baseball can be tricky because there seems to be a game on like every day. Still, I’d rather he watch the games with his friends, so he's not all up in my business.

Football is the best because it’s a whole day of not hanging out with each other after brunch. I used to date this guy who always watched the Steelers game with his fellow Pittsburghians every Sunday. It was perfect. I could do whatever I wanted with my friends and then meet up with him later for smooches.

Do your thang and let's meet up when you're done!

I am aware that relationships are not prisons and regardless of my boyfriend’s sports preferences I am allowed to do whatever I want when I want but it’s a lot easier to gracefully get some alone time when a guy has his own interests or hobbies. A boyfriend who enjoys an activity that I don’t allows us to be separate without anyone getting their feelings hurt or insecurities stoked by a, “Meh, I’d rather not.”

In college, I had an (admittedly) clingy boyfriend who took three of the same classes as me and we drove to and from school together every day. He would pout when I didn’t want to come inside and watch "The Simpsons" together.

I finally broke down and yelled, “I need to make new memories!” Plus, if each one of you has your own interests, you can have interesting conversations and learn new things. For example, with the Pittsburgh ex, I learned a lot about the Steelers and football and he learned a lot about “America’s Next Top Model” and Tyra Banks. Disparate interests keep the love alive.

Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Grimy Cups

noreply@blogger.com (Rose) — Fri, 10 May 2013 17:01:00 +0000

You know what I like? Being friends with a guy who cooks. Want to know what’s even better than that? Being friends with a guy who cooks, is adorable, AND has an awesome kitchen. Quickest way to kill my dream of being one of cute couples that hang out in the kitchen? His grimy cups.

Let me explain: back during my university days, I had a group of friends that would dedicate one night a week to movie night. Everyone would make a dish and pile in over at whomever’s apartment was the most accommodating (re: clean) and with enough comfortable seating for everyone. Lucky for me, the cutie of the group had the apartment with the best seating.

So there I was, flirting with the cute chef in his kitchen while daydreaming about being that indulgent couple that hangs out in the kitchen. He offered me a drink while I imagined us feeding each other pastries, freshly baked from our oven. I’m thinking that I’ve hit the foodie jackpot.

Then he opens the cabinet that houses his cups. His grimy cups. Those scaly, scuffed-up, slice-your-mouth-open plastic cups.

You know the kind:

Where you can tell, from the discoloration, someone was drinking red Kool-Aid at some point several uses ago.

Where you can faintly smell the dishwater detergent crammed into those cracks and crevasses every time you take a sip.

Where you can clearly see the scratchy and fuzzy reminders of months (years?!) of constant chewing around the lip.

Seriously, ew

I put on my poker face and politely accepted his frayed and scummy cup. I tried to hide my dismay as I surveyed the damaged goods, hoping there’s a spot on the lip of the cup that’s not too icky. I failed miserably and ended up parched for the rest of the night.

Needless to say, I started bringing my own drinks after that.

Phrases We'd Like To Stab In The Face: "How Are You Going To Get There?"

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Fri, 10 May 2013 16:42:00 +0000

From Gina, who'd like a ride, please:

I hate when he asks “So how are you gonna get there?” Huh? How am I gonna get there? Man, I thought you just asked me out, doesn’t that mean you’re picking me up?

This has happened to me one too many times, so now when I’m talking to someone, one of the first questions I ask besides what’s your name, is do you have a car or some kind of transportation or at least a license? Are you old enough to rent a car, or get your hands on one for the night? I don’t feel like that’s too much to ask for. Or at least if you have none of those options we can walk to a place by me, but there is no way that I am picking you up or taking the bus to meet you half way.

Sorry man, I’m gonna be old school about this, but you gotta get your butt in gear, 'cause if this is going anywhere, you better be driving me somewhere, somehow because I am not chauffeuring your ass around town.

Hopefully it's from his ass picking me up in his damn car

The last time this happened, I was too naïve to ask if he had transportation before we set up the date and made the dumb assumption that he’d pick me up. Right before we hung up his last question was, “So how are you planning on getting there? I’m taking the bus.” I had so many excuses racing through my mind on how to get out of this date but my greedy mind was only thinking about a free meal and that he might be worth it.

I blurted out that I would pick him up. Little did I know that I should have cut it off right then because it just got worse. I picked him up from the bus that came from Jersey only for us to return to NJ to see a 3D movie. Now not only am I picking this fool up in Philly, when he just came from Jersey but he wanted to go back over! Why didn’t you just stay there and make things easier? Why didn’t I just say I got the fever all the sudden and back out of this goddam date?

Driving to Jersey was amusing. We talked about how much he loved punk rock and that his favorite store was Spencers, and I bitched about paying the toll back to Philly and that this entire date was a dumb idea. Mind you, this is only the beginning of the date, so you can imagine how much worse it got when we arrived in Jersey (but those are stories for another time).

Lesson learned: never go on a date with some dude who is without a car/license, loves Spencers, offers to reimburse for your driving but doesn’t pay for dinner or the movie. I say this now but my track record begs to differ.

Story Time: The Dumbest Reason You’ve Ever Dumped Someone In Six Words

noreply@blogger.com (Sam) — Wed, 08 May 2013 20:41:00 +0000

There are plenty of great reasons to dump someone. Maybe you want kids and she doesn’t. Maybe he is a compulsive liar. Maybe he collects DUIs like Pokemon cards. Those are all legit reasons to peace out.

Today, we aren’t concerned with the great reasons. We’re thinking about the stupid ones. The challenge is to describe the dumbest reason you have ever broken it off with someone in six words. I’ll get the ball rolling:

Feet smelled like old tater tots.
Awkwardly stared straight up while kissing.
Always ordered pizza or chicken fingers.
Perfume smelled like freshly cut grass.
Preferred "Voyager" to "The Next Generation."
Voice sounded like a teenage boy.

Got any awesomely dumb reasons for putting the kibosh on your relationship? Leave 'em in the comments!

[Previously: Worst Dates in Six Words Part 1, Part II, and Part III]

Bonerkiller: Guys Who Can't Navigate Around an Airport

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Wed, 08 May 2013 20:02:00 +0000

From Melissa, who can't understand why he's a total shitshow at the airport:

He's got a great apartment and even greater hair. Obviously he's done well enough for himself to find a job that allows him to keep a nice place with a well-stocked fridge, and, even more impressively, find a hairdresser who can handle his curly hair with aplomb. So why is watching him navigate this airport like watching a baby deer learn to walk on a treadmill? It’s cute for a second, then awkward, then horrifying.

It only takes about two minutes (or, in airport-time, one PA announcement about the dangers involved in picking up anyone’s strange bag if they ask you) to realize that there is no way we’re getting to go in the “expert travelers” line. Watching his confused face look up at that departing flights screen is like watching my mom check the Internet.

I’m sure there are liquids and other potentially hazardous items in his carry-on not properly stored in a quart-sized Ziploc bag. I have way too much time to think about all of his potentially hazardous items while I have to wait for him to find his crumpled up boarding pass at the bottom of his bag. Get it together, guy!

Normally he’d be the one expertly navigating while we drove somewhere, so it’s hard to process that traversing an airport carefully divided into alphabetic and numerical sections is more difficult for him to navigate than the backwoods of Pennsylvania. Can’t he orient himself by the calculating the positions of the stars and shit? Why is the addition of a few food courts, water fountains and corridors throwing him for such a loop? What’s happening here?

To be fair, I knew he had to be bad at something or he’d have been too good to be true. He's funny, he's a good listener, and he owns a lot of tools. I guess he's just out of his element.

Next time maybe we can lean into it; he can wear a fanny pack and pretend he's a European traveler with a poor grasp of English, and I’ll lead him around talking very slowly and using lots of hand motions to ensure I’m getting my point across. Or we’ll just limit our excursions to roadtrips.

Laziest Online Dater Ever Seeks "Pretty, Thin" Woman To Review Profiles on His Behalf

noreply@blogger.com (Anna) — Fri, 03 May 2013 21:53:00 +0000

Well, this is lovely. Only $100/week to scan through this douchebag's matches. What a fantastic opportunity for an aspiring writer/editor who is "pretty, thin, educated and in her 20s or 30s." *inserts rolling of eyes*

Click on the image to make it bigger

Maybe he'll outsource his shitty, non-committal texts too. Pretty, thin writers and editors can only hope!

via Alan Hanson